The Happytime Murders review: Muppet mystery dead on arrival

It's not for nothing that one of the first editions of The Muppet Show bore the title Sex and Violence. However things might look from a misty nostalgic viewpoint, violence was always plentiful in the Muppet universe, with its devouring monsters and incessant explosions. As for the "sex" side of the equation, who could be more of an unchecked force of libido than Miss Piggy?

Melissa McCarthy struggles with her muppet co-star in The Happytime Murders.Credit:AP

The Muppets, in other words, were never just for kids. Nor were they innocuous, any more than fairy tales are. They were just abstract, inhabitants of a heightened, purified world.

Trying to bring them down to earth is a dubious enterprise at best: this has been the problem with attempts to revive Kermit, Fozzie Bear and the gang, especially the awful, shortlived recent TV show in which they were made to behave like the characters on any old workplace sitcom.

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Melissa McCarthy in The Happytime Murders.Credit:Internet

The Happytime Murders isn't quite as bad as that, but it's still a weird misjudgment, especially coming from Brian Henson, the director of semi-classics such as The Muppet Christmas Carol and the son of original Muppet creator Jim Henson.

The film depends entirely on a single, not very original joke: showing fuzzy, google-eyed puppets swearing, having sex and acting like all-round sleazebags.

This kind of thing is only amusing to a certain kind of smart-alec kid, which is what director Peter Jackson was when he set out to profane the family-friendly Muppet image in his 1989 film Meet the Feebles. Henson, in his mid-50s, has no such excuse, and nor do the troupe of veteran Muppeteers who collaborated with him on The Happytime Murders, which is set in an alternate version of modern Los Angeles where puppets are a stigmatised minority group.

The film is a private-eye spoof, a genre so ancient it was already tired when the Muppets were getting started. Walking the mean streets of the city, we see his legs about once a scene, is puppet ex-cop Phil Phillips, operated by Bill Barretta, the performer of various original Muppet characters such as the Swedish Chef.

Maya Rudolph doesn't have much to do in The Happytime Murders.Credit:AP

Phil's latest case involves a serial killer targeting puppets, specifically the stars of a vintage TV show called The Happytime Gang. Joining him in his investigation is Detective Connie Edwards, his foul-mouthed former partner on the force, played by Melissa McCarthy, though just about any comic star could have been slotted into the role with minor tweaks to the script.

That script, by Todd Berger, is the film's biggest problem. Various promising themes are introduced without being followed through: the hint of racial allegory, the contrast between the innocence of the Happytime Gang and gritty reality, the possibility that the bigoted Connie might be part-puppet herself. Even the impossible logic of the puppet world, for some reason, they're addicted to sugar rather than regular drugs,isn't worked out with much enthusiasm.

Worse, almost none of the dialogue is funny, and Henson films it in the flat manner that now makes many comedies of the 1980s feel deadly, with long, formal pauses in between the jokes. Even a scene set in a porn shop fails to capitalise on the opportunity for lewd puppet puns (there are three urine jokes in as many minutes, which well and truly smacks of desperation).

McCarthy can't be blamed for any of this, but she's not an asset either. Some performers work well with puppets, others don't, and she turns out to be in the second class. On a basic level, the comic logic is off: she's funniest when seething with futile aggro, but this calls for her to be pitted against antagonists more forceful than the kind who look like cuddly toys. Other guest stars, such as Maya Rudolph as Phil's human secretary, simply don't get much to do.

The Happytime Murders has the aura of a predestined flop (ominously, it barely gets to 90 minutes, including the credits). Still, it holds attention better than the average catastrophe: there's something mesmerisingly awkward about filmmakers trying to be outrageous and transgressive when they have no natural bent for it.

For whatever murky reasons, Henson junior has set out to tarnish the legacy of his father, and in this sense the film succeeds, if not in the way he might have wished.